


The hope of the hopeless

by 35391291



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drug Use, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 07:04:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: He doesn't have much. A bullet, his flask, the sweet thick smoke, a shared breath. All his little words and lies. All these beautiful ghosts, all substitutes for his heart.This is why he has to leave. And this is why he has to come back.





	The hope of the hopeless

My once faultless hero  
Afraid of my shadow  
I don't know why  
I don't know why  
The hope of the hopeless  
A gun to the temple  
Don't make me cry  
Don't make me cry

\- Cock Robin: [A little innocence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEv9gQ16jL8).

*

There is a watch in the pocket of darkness. It ticks and ticks and ticks, coming closer. It won't stop tonight. So he gets his words ready and lays them out carefully, like weapons. He sits and he waits. The air is thick and heavy. He breathes it in, he knows what's coming. The approaching storm will lick his wounds and harden his heart. And the wind will blow, and the air will scream, and the rain will fall on him violently, like another round of fighting. This night reminds him of southern weather. It suits him, it always does. But right now, this rage isn't enough. He needs something else, something more. He can't be alone with his own thoughts, so the smoke will have to take him in. That's their deal, that's how they always end up. The two of them, close together, barbed wire and skin and rust. That's how it goes, and maybe it's what he deserves. All these little wounds. So tiny, so many of them. They never stop. And that's how they become unbearable.

He isn't sure when he became it, but he did. An explosion waiting to happen. A volcano, a well without a bottom. A mistake that can't be erased, only hidden, masked and dulled. A glass pane between him and the world. He sees this weakness within, and he hates it. But he doesn't want to give it up. He knows that it is what pushes him over the edge, and what brings him back to the surface. There is nothing left without it. The words, the wit, the wisdom and the stories. They will all go. And he can't have that, so this is what he does. Bullet holes and fire and white noise and scars. This is how he gets by, day after day. Swallowing rotgut tears. Closing all the wounds, one at a time. Having them open back again come morning.

It tastes like copper, this fake whiskey death. It is almost tender, almost kind. It lies to him, and promises everything will be all right. It's a temporary fix, a hope for the hopeless. It's a start. He still hears the owls, but they are a few steps away. They let him go for a second, so that he can catch his breath and remember what it was like to know, to feel, to be something else. But it's an old trick, and it doesn't work. He knows that there isn't enough time. The owls always come back, or maybe they have never really left. And his heart might as well be another useless, brittle bone, the way it shatters. It turns to splinters and dust, and then an empty space.

The world has gone wrong, and the glass is still there. It hurts too much. Every waking second beats along with the pain, and he doesn't want to be left alone with it. And it's all he has, so he lets go. His fingers give up, his hands unfold slowly. This is the only way he can feel freedom. It's like drowning. It stops hurting for a while and then it comes back, a thousand times worse. There are new, unexpected layers of pain that push him downwards. And then it stops. Or maybe it doesn't. There are no miracles here, not even small ones. Maybe he's just stopped feeling. Maybe he's just stopped for good. And maybe there is no return.

He doesn't have much. A bullet, his flask, the sweet thick smoke, a shared breath. All his little words and lies. All these beautiful ghosts, all substitutes for his heart. Not enough, never enough. He didn't think it possible, but he is still able to cry. Splinters, maybe. Or gunpowder, or ashes, or pain. This is why he has to leave. And this is why he has to come back. Maybe there is something out there that can shatter that glass. Or maybe it is just a trick of the light, and he is truly gone, and these are just tears.


End file.
